


Songbird's Plight

by ParallelDimension75



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Corpses, Disturbing Themes, Geralt POV, Good Parent Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Mild Horror, Necromancy, Rescue, Sorcerers, The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt, Witcher Contracts, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-29
Updated: 2018-09-29
Packaged: 2019-07-20 05:08:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16130258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ParallelDimension75/pseuds/ParallelDimension75
Summary: Geralt tugged the note free from the board, reading closely. They had to be making a mistake. That couldn’t be correct.Brave souls needed! The Church of the Eternal Fire asks you to relieve the local area of the monstrous presence which has taken root here. A necromancer haunts our village, and we fear this vile sorcerer will end more lives if not brought down. See the priest of the Eternal Fire, Amelor, for discussion of compensation.A necromancer?





	Songbird's Plight

Geralt tugged the note free from the board, reading closely. They had to be making a mistake. That couldn’t be correct.

_Brave souls needed! The Church of the Eternal Fire asks you to relieve the local area of the monstrous presence which has taken root here. A necromancer haunts our village, and we fear this vile sorcerer will end more lives if not brought down. See the priest of the Eternal Fire, Amelor, for discussion of compensation._

A necromancer?

The small villages of Velen tended not to like the Eternal Fire much. Geralt shielded his eyes from the sun as he took in the village around him; houses of thatched straw, overgrown plants, children playing in the muddy streets. Men snorted up snot and swiped at their noses with dirty sleeves, heaving rusted tools, while women nattered to each other as they hung up threadbare clothes to dry or tried to corral the wild children.

And none took a moment aside to spit at the shrine of the Eternal Fire. None gave it hostile looks or fumbled with small charms hidden in their pockets. Geralt could hear all the mundane chatter, inundated with the many voices of the village. None whispered of a local witch or healer, none muttered about the dirty priest and suggested that he was a goat-fucker.

Well, a scapegoat always did bring people together, especially with the church. And a _necromancer?_ If that were true, it would certainly explain the village’s unorthodox piety—or _tolerance_ at least for the church’s presence. And unorthodox it was, even this close to Novigrad.

Note in hand, Geralt made his way to the shrine. A small handful of people stood around it, at least one with her hands clasped together in prayer. “Looking for a priest? Name of Amelor? Says here you have a sorcerer problem.”

The woman with her hands clasped together in prayer turned, eyes narrowed. Geralt noticed the slight twitch as her gaze met his, the tensing as she swallowed.

“A witcher,” she spoke, a barely controlled tremor in her voice.

Geralt raised an eyebrow at her. “Are you Amelor?”

She laughed nervously, shaking her head. “Linna. I help the priest, sometimes. I— I’ll—I’ll go get him.”

Geralt watched her hurry away. He could feel the other villagers retreating from him through a collage of input from his senses.

He crossed his arms and waited with a sigh.

The woman was quick; it hadn’t been a moment before she slipped out a nearby house, a man in characteristic robes following her.

It was instantly obvious that he was clean. He was heavily bearded, but he didn’t stink like bits of days-old food had burrowed their way into and hidden in it, nor was it matted and greasy. Almost definitely, this man came from Novigrad.

“Ah.” The priest’s voice was considered, clear. There was no tremor, no age to it; his beard was just barely streaked with grey. He was strong when he spoke, back straight with courage and lack of any hard work in his life. “A witcher. Here about the notice, I presume? Finally. It is time the Eternal Fire smiled upon us.”

“Don’t get your hopes up too quickly.” Geralt had met his fair share of slimy priests and slimy Novigradians. This man looked like the unholy intersection of both. “You must be crazy if you think I’ll instantly believe there’s a necromancer running around the place. That magic is insanely difficult to learn; only someone who was, say, part of the Sorceress’s Lodge might know how to use it. If you do manage to convince me that you have a necromancer on your hands, this won’t be cheap.”

The assembled villagers were no longer just those at the shrine; more and more had gathered, though they stayed a noticeable distance apart. Only Amelor had the backbone to stand close to Geralt. Though, Geralt supposed, he would be the only one who hadn’t ruined said backbone through the gruelling life of a Velen resident.

Amelor’s even gaze slid calmly across the circle of villagers, then alighted once more on Geralt. He held his arms behind his back, then tilted his head to the side. “Perhaps it would be best for morale if we spoke in private, witcher.”

Fine. “So be it.”

Amelor turned, and the villagers parted to either side to let him pass. Geralt ignored the whispers they didn’t know he could hear as he followed the priest outside the small village and up a hill. They followed a somewhat even path up until they alighted on the rise; Geralt could see Novigrad from here, high up enough to see farming plains and paths and villages all the way up to the great city. On top of this jill flanked by forest, trees fanning out behind it, was a small church. The stone was blackened. Around it, a graveyard, the grass dry.

Each grave was dug up.

The priest turned back to Geralt, even gaze held sure with solemnity. “We diligently bury our dead in effort to dissuade necrophages from attacking. What’s more, there has been a known sorcerer lurking in this area for years. Necromancy is not all we must contend with; earthquakes have tortured this lone village as well, while others go unaffected, and the church was set on fire. And lastly, there is a danger which plagues this village. Why would I lie to someone who can deliver us from it? Every day this necromancer works is another day where these people are in _danger_.”

...Huh.

Geralt crossed his arms once more. “I’ll admit, you have shown me something new. And that’s no easy feat.” There was no stink of necrophage, no stolen children to signal a grave hag, and they were sure there was a sorcerer in the area. He shook his head. “Well, if it is a necromancer… The price isn’t going to be small.”

The priest sighed, eyes gazing into the distance without an anchor. “...Of course. Whatever is necessary.”

-

Geralt hadn’t needed his nose find his quarry, nor anything more than common sense. Where would a necromancer go to be safest if they weren’t travelling far? The nearest graveyard.  If the town graveyard had already been plundered of all it could offer? The next-nearest graveyard.

There were enough towns on the edge of Novigrad, and enough people in the city, that there were larger gravesites tucked away into the forest. All it had taken was quizzing a few townspeople, and a several minute journey into the woods.

It hadn’t been very hard from there.

“Who are they?” Geralt asked.

The girl huddled in the embrace of corpses, eyes narrow and distrustful. She was filthy, her eyes clear white against the grime dirtying her skin. “My friends,” she said quietly.

Her friends.

Like everything with the Church of the Eternal Fire. Always. Every damn time. They couldn’t do one entirely good thing, it seemed. There always had to be something else in there, something muddying the waters.

The girl was curled as taut as a bowstring, eyes flicking from one of Geralt’s to the other. The witcher knelt down, allowing himself to be on her level. He made the effort to make his voice gentle, searching for her gaze. “What are their names?”

The girl’s eyes flicked from one side to the other, studying him. She shifted in the graveyard dirt. “Ophira,” she said, hand clutching the female corpse tighter. She nodded her head to the other. “Hammond.”

“Did you give them those names?”

“No!” The girl jerked, spitting at him, eyes flaring wide with anger. “That’s who they _are._ They _were_ my friends. When they were alive!”

As she spoke, she huddled closer to Ophira, seeking out the cold comfort of her embrace as the limbs moved. The animated puppet arms drew tighter around the filthy girl as tears welled up in her eyes, clearing streaks down her face.

“I love them more than my family.” The girl’s voice trembled. “My family wanted the witch hunters to kill me. Hammond saved me and _they killed him_ for it!” She sniffed, nose leaking, running her arm viciously under her nose in vain effort to clear it. She probably just made it dirtier. The tears came harder now, until Geralt wasn’t sure if she could even see any more. “Ophira c-couldn’t deal with him dying. She loved him. And then they accused _her_ of b-being a witch t-too, f-for helping _me_ —I found her at the bottom of the c-cliff in the forest.” She worked up a glob of saliva and spat it at Geralt, the wet projectile barely landing further than the girl’s own feet. A sob escaped her before she hunched over, desperately wrenching back control of her lungs. “They’re monsters. _They’re_ the monsters! Isn’t it your job to hunt the monsters?!”

Birds took flight at her final yells, their wing beats echoing in Geralt’s skull. He stayed there, kneeling, in front of her. The girl heaved in the corpses’ grip with anger, breath shuddering.

Geralt let her calm, for a moment, not feeding her fire. He let the flames die and some of her tension inevitably diffuse. “My name is Geralt,” he offered, calm. “What’s yours?”

The girl buried her face in Ophira’s shoulder, holding her tightly in turn. Hammond had his arm around both of them, the other rising jerkily to rest on the girl’s shoulder. She was silent for a long moment, just breathing shakily into her friend’s corpse.

“Finch.”

Finch. Like a little bird. Like a swallow.

If Ciri’s circumstances had been ever so slightly different… Would she have been the one before him like this?

Geralt offered her a smile. “Finch’s a pretty name.”

Finch’s head suddenly snapped towards him, hatred in her eyes. “You’re only here because they offered you gold to stick your stupid sword through me,” she hissed. “If you don’t go, _things_ will start happening. I could set the forest on fire like I did the church. Or worse. We’re in a graveyard. You’re all alone. I have hundreds of friends. I don’t want to kill you, but my friends get protective of me when they come out from under.”

She thought of them as her friends.

A chord of sadness was struck inside of him; at the pain of circumstances, buffeting this child through a maelstrom she couldn’t fight against. One tragedy after another, pain after pain after pain, simple bad luck. If Geralt hadn’t come, she probably would have died like that—curled up shivering and scared in the grave dirt, embraced by two other corpses.

Geralt didn’t want to be another painful circumstance.

Geralt shifted, coming just a little bit closer. “Yes. They put a contract on you. But I don’t have to collect it like that. I don’t think a child should be killed.”

“You’re lying.” She curled up, but the sob was still evident in her voice. So hopeless was she, so lost in the maelstrom of circumstance, that she couldn’t accept that her fortune might have changed. The arms of the corpses obscured her from view, her tangled, matted hair falling over her face.

“Finch—“

“ _N-no_.”

The corpses jerked, shuddering. Their heads twisted as they turned towards him, eyes white and milky, expressions torn, black mist seeping from their bodies.

“I don’t want to use them,” she whispered, almost too quiet to hear. “I don’t want to use their bodies like this—as fodder. I want to bury them. To give them peace. That’s what I was going to do.”

“Necromancy always ends in evil,” Geralt said.

Finch paused. She looked up, horrified confusion twisting her features.

“Necromancy isn’t just potentially evil when the wrong person uses it.” Geralt made sure his gaze was locked with hers, made sure there was a gentleness there even as he told her firmly. “The magic itself… Think of it like a curse. No matter how pure your intentions are, using the magic will twist those motivations the moment it gets a chance. Almost invariably you will end up causing evil.”

Something crumbled in her. Tears peeked at her eyes again. “I j-just… I just want to b-bury them…”

“Then bury them. I won’t stop you.”

“I _can’t!_ ”

The corpses jerked, hissing. Their hands clawed over the Source which gave them false life, a vicious protection which scoured lines into Finch’s skin. The girl howled, curling up even smaller. “I’m not strong enough! And the earth never moves when I want it to. When it does it’s always catastrophic!”

The earthquakes the town had mentioned. Geralt closed his eyes. “How long have these things been happening?”

“Years,” she whispered.

_Years?_

“What do you mean, years? How did you hide these things for years?”

Finch shook her head, trembling as the sobs ran themselves up and down her body. “B-before the church and the priest from the city came, th-there was an altar. An altar to M-Melitele. When things started happening the p-priestess said these happenings, th-they—I w-was chosen b-by the goddess, she said. She t-took me in. I was t-to be a p-priestess.” Finch nestled her head in the crook of Ophira’s shoulder. “Th-then the church came.”

She sobbed. An honest sob. Something in her had crumbled; all the anger and hatred was gone. There was nothing but despair.

“The priest and his w-witch hunter m-men destroyed the altar and made us b-build the church. At f-first, they didn’t mind me and the priestess. Even when I made _things_ happen, they accepted it, they said the villages m-might need easing out of the old gods, that we were good for them, especially if we helped spread the message of the Eternal Fire. B-but he wasn’t happy that I couldn’t control it.”

Geralt closed his eyes. He knew something like this had been coming. “What next?”

She shook her head again, clapping her hand over her mouth. “I c-couldn’t,” she sobbed. “He m-made me p-pray and b-beat m-me when I didn’t b-because if I c-couldn’t c-control it th-then it was a s-sign that I was a witch, a s-sorcerer, and the Eternal Fire couldn’t save me, I n-needed to h-have faith and b-be strong, and I d-didn’t have enough faith s-since all these things kept happening. The witch hunters w-would burn me when I did s-something really bad, and I killed them! This evil force in me killed them. I killed the witch hunters when they came and I wanted it to be the other way around. I tried! I tried, I tried so hard to control it, b-but I just couldn’t. I-it was up t-to me and I _f-failed_.”

The corpses were gentle now. They held the child, Hammond’s head leaning against her back while his hand jerkily stroked her over and over in a mockery of soothing.

A Source with a natural affinity for necromancy. By all accounts, she was dangerous. She already had caused significant damage, would only cause more if left unchecked.

Circumstances. It was all in the circumstances.

“I’m s-sorry,” Finch’s whispered, murmured into the corpse’s skin. Geralt had the distinct impression it wasn’t addressed to him. “I’m a f-failure.”

The corpses tightened, drawing closer. Finch looked up, peeking out from beneath the dead flesh she held onto as comfort. Briefly, her gaze grazed Geralt’s. Then her eyes closed, and the image flashed back into Geralt’s head; her dying here, in the embrace of two corpses.

“You’re not a failure.”

The girl’s eyes opened again, sudden.

Geralt met her gaze, made sure to meet it. “You’re what’s called a Source. You have the potential to be a sorcerer, to have magical powers. But if you’re not properly trained, they’re dangerous. They can go out of control. They can hurt other people. They _will_ hurt you. If someone doesn’t train you, you’ll go mad. It’s not your fault. You’re not a failure.”

Finch looked up at him, eyes searching. She reached out her hand, and Geralt reached to take it, to help her up.

Instead, her hand went over his and straight for his head.

It was like when he would spar with Vesemir and he would use the Axii sign—but this was the strongest Axii in the world. Stronger. It was magic, the true form that the sign bastardised from. He could feel something taking over, locking itself in place.

 _“Are you telling the truth?”_ The voice was dim.

 _“Yes,”_ a voice replied. His own.

The thing which had come in receded just as rapidly. Geralt came back to himself just in time to see the girl slide off the corpse’s shoulder and collapse, shaking on the ground in front of him, breath heaving.

Shit. She was foaming at the mouth.

Geralt reached to hoist her up, to get up straight so she could cough it all out and breathe—but the corpses got in the way. Ophira hissed and swiped at him, black mist billowing from her hand. Hammond curled up over the body of his necromancer, hissing in similar defensive rage.

Geralt reached for his blade, ready to cut the corpses down—but he could hear Finch heaving. She could breathe.

Geralt let the fit pass. Finch lay curled up in the dirt, heaving, spittle coating the ground in front of her face.

“Are you alright?” Geralt kept his hand near his blade in case he needed to bat the corpses away to reach her and help her through another fit.

“Mm… Mmhm.” Finch nodded from the ground, breaths heavy. Her voice was so quiet, so little air behind it, that Geralt was sure that if he’d been simply human he couldn’t have heard her. “Happens. ‘M used to it.”

An image flashed before him. Finch with ashen hair and green eyes, no longer a finch but a swallow. Ciri curled up on the ground in front of him, covered in dirt, heaving and foaming at the mouth.

Geralt stood, brushing dirt off his knees. “I’ll help you bury them.”

The girl stared at him with wide eyes, still curled on the ground. Geralt let her be; he hunted for a gravediggers’ hut and retrieved a shovel. He guessed at a spot beneath the tree, far enough from headstones that he supposed it would be far enough.

Finch was silent as he worked.

When he’d dug it deep and wide enough for the two children to lie side by side, Geralt lay the shovel aside and gestured to it. “When you’re ready.”

Finch didn’t answer, not with words. But she reached out to the two corpses. One leg in front of the other, she and the corpses hoisted her up as she found her footing on withered legs. Geralt wondered how long it had been since she’d eaten.

Finch didn’t let them go quickly. She hugged the corpses first, crying silently as she sent them down into the dirt. Geralt could see the two corpses twitch and fidget before they finally lay quiet—holding hands.

Finch stared down at them, watching, still, as Geralt covered them with dirt. She trembled with exhaustion as she finally tore her eyes away, though she said nothing. She didn’t need to. Geralt knew the magic must have exhausted her.

“I’ll go with you.”

Geralt eyed her expression, even. That despair; it hadn’t lifted. She truly had crumbled, not even a negative emotion to keep her going. She was just… Empty.

“Y-you’ll get your c-coin. They’ll g-get their peace. J-just m-make it quick.”

If she had still been angry, or hateful, Geralt wasn’t sure what he would have done. But if there was nothing there, then maybe, just maybe, there was something positive which could grow.

“That won’t be necessary.”

The girl’s gaze snapped to him, eyes flicking to the side. Her body was too drained of energy to react otherwise.

Geralt matched Finch’s gaze. “I have a friend. A sorcerer.”

There was a brief flash of revulsion across the girl’s features. It almost immediately drained into sorrow, as the disgust was turned inward.

“She can teach you how to control it all. You won’t have to die. The villagers, no one else, will ever have to suffer because of your magic.”

Again, Finch didn’t answer with words. But the self-hatred in her expression dissolved. First, the sadness in it was just so heavy that it became longing. But then, something lifted it up.

Hope.

Something had finally beaten the despair.

She didn’t speak, but her body was trembling with the simply effort of keeping her upright. She didn’t complain when Geralt lifted her up in his arms and walked her to Roach.

He managed to keep Finch upright and steady through the short ride, though even that seemed to tax her greatly. He stopped a small distance from Finch’s little village.

“I need to tell them you’re gone,” Geralt explained. “But the way witchers work; they need a trophy for them to believe me.”

Finch sucked in a breath. But she remained slumped, drained.

“I’ll take you into the village on horseback. Roach will run if there’s danger, and I can protect you. I will protect you.”

She nodded, barely.

Geralt dismounted and gave Roach a pat on the neck. He had no doubt they would be fine. A Source as powerful as that would be capable of defending herself without even intending to, and he didn’t plan on taking long.

The woman who’d first fetched the priest spotted them quickly. She needed no other encouragement than Geralt’s presence; she ran towards the church.

When the priest came out, it was with an eyebrow raised. He walked with the confident and lofty air of a man who was trying to maintain his composure while also trying to pretend the smells of village life weren’t getting to him. “What is the meaning of this?”

There was a tremble to his voice. The tautness at the edges of his eyes and lips could make one mistake it for anger. But Geralt knew the priest was terrified.

“You wanted me to kill a child who’s crimes were entirely accidental.” Geralt knew his gaze was powerful. It was why he locked it with the priest before, to make sure he wasn’t being played. It was why he locked it with Finch, to calm her and convey his message. It was why he locked it with the priest now, to make sure that he wasn’t just terrified but shitting his pants.

“A witch.”

“A _child_.” Geralt held out his hand. “But don’t worry. She’s not sticking around. I’m taking her far away from here, where you’re safe from her, and _she’s_ safe from you.”

The priest looked almost offended by the proffered hand, as if it was what smelled of shit. “You expect me to pay you for bringing something so dangerous back _which could harm_ these innocent people—”

“I’m taking her out of the area.” Geralt’s voice dropped low. “She’s not your problem anymore. I’ve fulfilled your contract. Would you rather I left her here?”

Not that he would let anyone, not Finch or the villagers, suffer that. But Geralt was sick of this man.

“ _All right._ ” The priest let out a trembling exhale, eyeing the village around him. “But I will _not_ pay you the full sum we agreed on. That was on the assumption you would have a gruelling, arduous fight which would cost you much, and these people have little enough as it is. I’m not wasting it on a witcher who goes back on his word.”

“No.” Geralt crossed his arms. “Who interprets those words creatively. Half.”

The priest jerked his head towards the woman. “Linna, get the witcher his coin.”

Linna hurried to do his bidding. The pouch of coin was still suitably heavy, but it weighed only on his hand, not his conscience.

Geralt gave Linna a nod before swinging himself up on Roach behind Finch. The girl’s head was bowed as they left the village.

Geralt followed the road down the hill to Novigrad. The path twisted around, swinging out widely to the east before cutting back west across the hill, only to finally turn north at the base towards Novigrad.

As Roach turned onto the western path, a woman blocked the way.

Geralt felt Finch still in front of him.

As they neared, Geralt recognised her.

“Linna,” Finch breathed.

“Finch,” the woman said in hushed tones. She rushed forward, clasping the girl’s hands in her own, smiling wider than anything Geralt had seen in a while. “Thank the goddess you’re all right.”

Finch smiled down at her, tiredness dragging at her limbs. “Thank you,” she replied quietly, voice cracking. “For everything.”

The woman hushed her, pressing a small amulet into her hands. “Don’t you worry.” She took Finch’s head in her hand and gently guided her down so she could kiss her forehead. Linna smiled, the barest hints of melancholy touching the edges. “Melitele is watching over you, I know it. You would have been a wonderful priestess.”

Finch simply smiled, too exhausted to respond.

Linna squeezed her hand. “Don’t you worry about anything. The village is in good hands.”

Finch managed the energy to wave goodbye as Geralt continued on, leaving them behind.

The sun was setting when Finch finally spoke again.

“Where are you taking me?”

Geralt only barely caught the whisper despite his enhanced senses. “To a friend of mine. More precisely, I’m taking you somewhere safe where I can get a message to her and she can come and collect you herself.”

“Why?”

“Because she’s in Kaer Morhen. She can teleport, we can’t.”

Finch didn’t respond for a while. But again, she spoke without words; Geralt felt her leaning against him, some of the tension bleeding out of her as necessity and trust took its place.

Before falling asleep, she murmured one last question. “Who is she?”

“A sorcerer,” Geralt said quietly. “Keira Metz.”

“Okay.”

The young girl slept against him for the rest of their ride.

* * *

 **A/N:** This work was typo-checked by [SilverWolfPup](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverWolfPup).


End file.
